


Hands-On Medicine

by skarletfyre



Series: The Learning Curve [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Injury, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, basically Medic just has really nice hands okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Scout fucks up his hand, Medic teaches him how to wrap them. Scout can't help noticing that this is the first time he's seen the doctor without his gloves on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands-On Medicine

Scout's hand hurt.

He should have been used to it by now. He'd been doing this for almost a year and he had the callouses to prove it. After every battle he came out with new bruises, new aches, new cuts and scrapes and scars. Respawn didn't catch the little stuff. Respawn wouldn't help for shit if you broke a leg at the end of a match. It only kicked in if you died. Heart stopped, brain dead, the whole works. And Scout got it, he really did. He just thought it fucking sucks.

He was alone in the resupply room. Everyone else had dropped their gear and gone off back to their business, grumbling about something or other. Spy had made a beeline for the showers, stinking of piss and growling about _that repulsive Bushman_. Scout thought he meant the BLU bastard on the other team, the one who kept doing him in every time he tried to set foot out of the base. Then their Sniper ambled in, grinning and chuckling as he stuffed his rifle back into its case, and Scout understood.

All the others had come and gone, not paying attention to Scout and his sour expression, or the fact that he hadn't moved since he got there. The room was empty and quiet, save for the sounds of Scout sucking on his bleeding knuckle and swearing under his breath.

It was his own fault, punching the BLU Soldier in the face like that. But hell would freeze over before he would admit his fault out loud. Now the skin was broken and the knuckles were turning a sickly shade of purple, and his hand shook when he opened his fingers and held it out.

Fuck. Fucking great.

The pain was tolerable enough for him to deal with. Hell, he'd had worse. He'd had his entire arm cut off on more than one occasion, so Scout reasoned that he should be able to deal with a little scrape and bruice. He could wash his hands, get the dirt and blood out of the wound, the stinging would stop, and then Respawn would take care of it the next day. No big deal. Nothing that hadn't happened a hundred times before.

At dinner, trying to hold his knife while gritting his teeth in pain, Scout changed his mind.

Demo, from his seat next to Scout, was the only one to notice his obvious discomfort. Instead of calling attention to it, calling him a “wee lad” or any shit like that, Scout was immensely grateful when the Scot held out his own personal bottle of scrumpy. It burned going down, but that burn distracted him from the throbbing in his hand.

“Ye ought tae let the Doc have a look at tha',” Demo murmured to him, nodding discreetly at Scout's limp, bruised hand, half hidden under the table. Scout reflexively clenched it into a fist and regretted it instantly. He bit his lip to stop from crying out, then shook his head. He took a deep breath.

“It's fine,” he said, his voice too high to be believable. “Medic's got other things to worry about, Respawn'll patch me up tomorrow. Besides, he's-”

Scout glanced down the table, where Medic was hacking into his baked potato and laughing loudly at something Heavy had said.

_Scary._

“-busy.”

Scout's fear of Medic was his one, well-kept secret. Maybe he was being irrational. Maybe he should just get over the fact that the guy had left a fuckin' _bird_ in his chest, and laughed when he heard the story of how it was forcibly and miraculously removed via grenade launcher. That's not something people are supposed to laugh about, right? Scout was well within his rights to think the guy was a creep. Not that he would ever tell anybody that. Everyone loved Medic. Heavy most of all, and the last place Scout wanted to be was on the receiving end of the big guy's fists.

Demo clapped Scout good-naturedly on the shoulder, startling him out of his brooding.

“He'll make time for ye,” the Scotsman reassured him, taking his scrumpy gently out of Scout's hand. He took a deep swig and didn't talk to Scout for the rest of the meal.

Scout, for his part, at least considered the Demoman's advice.

Of course the Doc would make time for him. He was hurt, and Medic's literal only job on the team was to heal people. Scout wasn't worried about being turned away. He was worried about going down there for a quick little patch-up, and ending up strapped down to the table with a needle in his arm and his guts all hanging out for the world to see. Sniper swore that's what happened to him the last time he was to the infirmary willingly, and he was adamant about never going back. The rest of the team was skeptical, but Scout was much more willing to believe him. There was something about the doctor that deeply unsettled him.

He looked down the table again, just in time to watch Medic viciously stab himself another potato.

 

Scout did not go to the infirmary after dinner.

He went straight to his room, gritting his teeth into a smile whenever he accidentally caught someones eye. He could feel Demo's disapproving stare on his back all the way down the hall, as impossible as that was, and was only free of it when he slammed the door to his room.

His hand was throbbing.

As a distraction, and to give himself an excuse not to leave his room, he set himself to the task of reorganising his baseball card collection.

The cards were Scout's life. His only connection to home from out in the middle of the desert. His brother, one of the oldest ones, had got him started collecting them when he was just a kid, and too dumb to know a good deal from a bad one. He lost a lot of lunch money that way, but it was worth it. He learned.

When he started, he figured everything would be fine. It was easy work, the cards weren't heavy or anything, and he didn't have to move his right hand all that much if he worked mainly with his left. For a while that was okay, just shuffling the cards and sifting through them and pushing them into general piles. It was slow going, and the sky began to darken while he was barely halfway through his collection. Scout knew he'd have to turn his lamp on before too long, unless he wanted to keep squinting by moonlight. But that would require moving. And seeing as he was literally covered in cards, all carefully laid out into neat little groups around the floor, moving would be a hazardous affair.

He could wait. It was a cloudless night, and his room was facing to the east. The moonlight was enough.

A few minutes after the clock struck ten, Scout's finger slipped.

The edge of the card bit into his skin, slicing a deep, rough cut into the pad of his index finger. Scout instinctively grabbed his hand, then yelped in pain as he crushed the bruised, tender flesh under his grip. The card fell to the floor, and in his haste to stand up his foot came down on a messy pile and nearly slid out from under him. He grabbed the iron bar of the footboard to catch himself, and bit his lip to stop from screaming in pain. His whole right hand felt like it was on fire. All the pain from earlier, all the throbbing that he thought had been easing over the past couple hours flared up all at once, twice as bad as before.

He lurched upright, hissing in pain, and stomped over to his door. Yanking it open with his left, undamaged hand and then slamming it behind him, Scout made off at a brisk pace down the hall.

The infirmary was in the lower levels of the fortress, along with all the dormitories and domestic supplies and facilities. It was cool in the summer and well insulated in the winter, and completely off limits to the enemy team. One of the truly safe places in the entire base.

Scout didn't bother keeping it down as he walked past the rooms of his teammates. The only doors after his were Sniper's and Demo's, and everybody knew Sniper slept out in his camper and Demo drank himself to sleep at the earlier opportunity. And if he woke anybody else up, so fucking what? They were all grown men – with the possible exception of Pyro – and they should be able to get over missing a few minutes of their beauty sleep. It wasn't like any of them were getting any prettier.

Scout was grinning at his own wit, despite the pain, when his shoes screeched on the linoleum as he came to a halt just outside the metal double doors of the infirmary.

What if Medic was asleep?

It was pretty late. And the Doc didn't exactly keep normal sleeping habits, as far as anyone knew. The Engineer had caught him sleeping, once, and accidentally woken him up. He wouldn't say exactly what Medic said or possibly _did_ to him, but his pale face and shaking hands spoke loud and clear. Medic was to be left sleeping at all costs.

Scout glanced behind him nervously, rocking on the balls of his feet.

His finger had stopped bleeding. But he knew if he squeezed it or bent it the wrong way it would start again. He looked down at his hand, really looked at it in the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

It was swollen grotesquely to almost twice its usual size. His fingers were all thick and puffy, especially around his knuckles, which were just starting to scab over. The bruising had only gotten worse as well. The back of his right hand was almost completely black, and a raw, sickly purple around the edges. It was a gruesome sight.

Scout screwed up his face, took a nice, deep breath, and shouldered his way into the infirmary.

Medic, surprisingly, was seated at his desk near the center of the room. That always bothered Scout. It felt too much like walking into the principle's office, an experience with which he was intimately familiar. The doctor looked up in surprise with a pen between his teeth and his glasses pushed onto his forehead. Scout froze.

“Scout?” Medic said, hurriedly taking the pen out of his mouth. “What are you doing here? It's–”

He squinted hard at the space above the door, where Scout knew an old, blood-spattered clock was hanging.

“–the middle of the night. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Scout said automatically. “I mean, no, I'm not, I, uh... I think I kinda messed up my hand. During the fight. I didn't think it was that bad, at first, but it then it kept hurtin' and I figured, ya know, I should probably come see you.”

He held up his swollen right hand, showing off the dark discolouration and broken skin. It was still shaking slightly, too. Medic pulled his glasses back into position, stared at him for a moment, then stood up.

“Come here and let me see,” he directed, walking over and reaching up to click on the light above the steel examination table. Scout hesitated. The prospect of getting within arms reach of Medic was exceptionally unappealing. He remembered Sniper's story, and the way the doctor had attacked his dinner hours earler. Scout's hand suddenly seemed to hurt a little less. Maybe he was healed after all. Maybe he could just leave.

He flexed it experimentally and found that he was wrong, and that he wasn't going anywhere.

Scout slouched reluctantly deeper into the room, coming to stand just inside the glow from the bright surgical lamp. Medic held out his hand expectantly, and Scout presented his own. When Medic's fingers closed gently around his wrist, he flinched.

“Does that hurt?” the doctor asked, loosening his already light grip.

“Nah, it's just – it's fine.”

Medic narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before returning his attention to Scout's hand. Scout swallowed.

Medic wasn't wearing his gloves.

It occurred to Scout that this was the first time he'd ever seen the man without them. And the first time he'd actually touched him. Even when they first met and exchanged customary handshakes, Medic had been wearing his thick rubber gloves, impeccably dressed in full uniform fresh off the train. Most of the team wore gloves of some kind. Skin to skin contact was rare, and in this case, wholly unexpected. Scout looked away, oddly flustered.

“When did this happen?” Medic asked, oblivious as usual to his patient's discomfort, turning Scout's hand this way and that.

“Near the end of the battle,” Scout explained, trying not to look guilty about avoiding treatment. “When I was runnin' back to the base. Their Soldier came outta fuckin' nowhere, slammed into me and grabbed me. I dropped my gun, so I just hit him until he let go. It didn't start hurtin' til the match was over though.”

“I see. And why didn't you come to me straight away?”

The Doc had a funny way of making his W's all sound like V's that Scout still wasn't used to yet. He shrugged sheepishly.

“I dunno. It didn't hurt _that_ bad. I thought it'd feel better in the morning, and if it didn't then Respawn would take care of it, ya know? But that was before – _ow!_ – before it really started hurting. I mean, I thought it was just bruised or something.”

The Medic made a scolding noise behind his teeth.

“ _Dummkopf_. Your hand is broken. I'm surprised you managed to last this long without treatment.”

Medic pinched Scout's palm between his thumb and forefinger. Scout screamed.

“You feel that?” Medic asked unnecessarily, mercifully letting go. “You've fractured the bones in your hand, and you have a metacarpophalangeal sprain.”

“Is that bad?” Scout asked with wide eyes, cradling his hand to his chest. Medic tsked.

“It means you nearly dislocated your fingers. And you wouldn't have been able to ignore it for so long if you had. You're lucky to have come when you did, before the injury began to set. By morning, you wouldn't have even been able to move your fingers.”

Medic turned abruptly and walked around the table to the back of the room. The medigun was resting on the counter next to the large industrial sink, still attached to its portable charge pack, where it had clearly been deposited after the battle. He disconnected it from the thick hose and lifted it with surprising ease. It was easy to forget that the doctor was just as strong as most other members of the team, seeing as he didn't really fight as much. Scout watched, impressed, as he hefted the device up to the ceiling and hooked it into its mount. He flicked a switch, and the medigun hummed to life. Medic angled the beam with one hand and held out the other impatiently.

“Your arm, _bitte_.”

Gingerly, Scout uncurled his hand from his chest and stretched it across the table. Medic took hold of his wrist again and pulled it into the warm, red light of the healing beam.

There was a brief tingle, like an electric shock, and Scout watched as the bruising on his hand faded from dark purple to splotchy brown, to a sickly yellow, and then into nothing. The swelling receded like a deflating balloon. The scabs on his knuckles melted back into his skin as the wounds closed up, and he could feel his bones knitting themselves back together. It was a pleasant feeling. And no matter how many times he saw it in action, Scout was always awed by the way the medigun worked. He breathed out a sigh of relief that he didn't know he's been holding.

“Wow,” he said, closing his hand and opening it again, flexing his fingers. Blissfully, there was no more pain. “Thanks, Doc, that's a lot better.”

“Perhaps next time you will think better of keeping injuries to yourself,” Medic chided, but there was no malice in his tone. Scout made to pull his hand back, to better inspect it for himself, but Medic's grip tightened on his wrist. Frowning, the doctor flipped his hand over and stared at his palm.

Scout's hands were pretty rough, but his right was definitely the worse of the two. Thick callouses and blisters marred his skin, and the heel of his palm was thick and tough. As he watched, Medic pressed his fingers to the biggest blister, where the bottom of his index finger chaffed against the gripping of his bat. Scout's eyes widened slightly when Medic traced his fingers down the inner curve of his hand, coming to rest on the hard skin at the crook of his thumb. It was a strangely intimate gesture. And if it hadn't been for the detached, clinical concern on the doctor's face Scout would have jerked his hand away.

“These should have healed,” Medic muttered, swiping the pad of his finger over the ball of Scout's thumb. Scout shrugged.

“They never have before, even after Respawn. I've always had those. They don't hurt or nothin'.”

“Always?” Medic asked, stretching Scout's palm open. “Even the Soldier's hands are not this bad, Herr Scout, and he's come to with me little more than a blown-off stump on more than one occasion. Why don't you wear gloves, or something to that affect?”

“No way, man, gloves just make my hands all sweaty and gross, and they chafe like hell when they get like that. It's fine, really, the callouses and stuff help me get a good grip.”

“Have you considered hand wraps?”

“What?”

Medic prodded idly at his palm.

“Wraps. For your hands.” He glanced up at Scout over the rims of his glasses. “You've never heard of them?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, one a' my brothers used to tape his hands up when he was lookin' for a fight, but I never did it before. Never needed to.”

“Hmm. Wait here.”

Medic let go of his wrist abruptly and turned away again, his boots clicking smartly on the tiled floor. Scout watched, as the doctor rifled through one of the many cabinets and shelves that lined the walls. This visit was turning into more than he'd bargained for. A quick heal with the medigun, that's all he'd wanted, and he'd gotten it. So why the hell was he still here? The door was right there, and Medic wasn't looking at him. If he was quick – and he always was – he could slip out without the Doc being any the wiser. He'd have to face him at breakfast in the morning, but he could handle that. Scout had been lectured more times than he could count in his life, and one more from a disappointed German wasn't gonna do any harm.

But Scout lingered too long, thinking about it too much. He realised he was rubbing his hand, his fingers following the same paths that Medic's had, and immediately tucked his hands behind his back just in time for the doctor to turn around. He was smiling now, looking much less irritable than he had when Scout first arrived. He was holding was looked like a small role of tape. He walked all the way around the table to stand in front of Scout, plucking a pair of surgical scissors off the tray next them. These he set down, and reached for Scout's hand again.

“Here, now, let me see if I remember how to do this... This will only be a demonstration, this is the wrong kind of tape for proper wrapping, but it will allow you get a feel for it. Give me your hand, _bitte_ , palm down.”

Scout complied and watched carefully as Medic pulled out a length of tape and looped it around his thumb. He secured it with a few loops around Scout's wrist.

“This tape is not sticky, see? It only sticks to itself, not your skin, which will make it much easier to take off later. Is that too tight?”

Scout shook his head.

“Good. Turn your hand for me – like that, yes – thank you. Here, let me just-”

Medic shuffled toward him and turned so that they were standing side by side, allowing the doctor to see his work from the correct angle. Scout instinctively edged away, startled by the sudden closeness. Everybody knew the Doc had personal space issues, never letting anyone inside his carefully maintained bubble. He didn't seem to have a problem invading anybody else's, though.

Scout watched, mesmerized, as Medic carefully and methodically wrapped his hand in the spongy surgical tape. He was explaining the steps as he worked, but Scout was only half listening.

Medic's hands were soft.

It was a weird thing to realise, but it was true. Medic had soft hands, especially compared to Scout's. No callouses or anything. His hands were actually kinda nice, again in comparison to Scout's, which were the only other reference he really had. Scout had skinny fingers, all bony joints and callouses and short, brittle nails that he chewed down when he was nervous. It was a nasty habit, one that would earn him a smack to the back of the head when his Ma caught him doing it. But his Ma wasn't here, and his nails had definitely suffered in her absence.

Medic had large hands, with long fingers and broad, flat palms. They were deceptively strong, as Scout had learned the hard way, being wrenched to the side or dragged out of harm's way in the heat of battle. But also surprisingly delicate. It made sense. The guy was a surgeon after all. His hands dwarfed Scout's own as they worked, weaving the tape between his fingers and wrapping it repeatedly around his hand. Medic's nails were short, too, but in the neatly trimmed, deliberate sort of way. Probably something to do with germs, since the Doc was always going on about “cleanliness” and “sterility.” Which was bullshit, and only seemed to apply to other people's messes. Scout suddenly realised that Medic might not have been just whining to get out of doing the dishes after all when he complained about the detergent being harsh on his skin.

The doctor's shoulder was pressed against his own, warm and solid. Scout realised he was leaning into it at the same time Medic laughed, apparently at his own joke, and jolted him from his reverie.

“There,” Medic proclaimed, smiling brightly. “All done.”

Scout looked down at his hand, which Medic was still holding. It was neatly and securely wrapped in the surgical tape, which added padding to his palm and across his knuckles. It wasn't exactly ready for a fight, but his hand definitely felt sturdier. He flexed his fingers experimentally and noted the way the tape tightened and flexed as he did so.

Scout looked up and smiled back.

Suddenly Medic was too close. He hadn't moved, but the distance between them was practically non-existent with their arms pressed together and Medic still keeping hold of his wrist. He was too close, and too tall, and too warm, and smiling too brightly. There was a weird fluttering in Scout's stomach that had nothing to do with fear or pain, or the fact that the peas he'd had for dinner were overcooked. Scout gasped and immediately wished he hadn't. He could smell Medic's aftershave, and the sweat on his skin, and the sharp tang of antiseptic that covered everything in the lab.

Scout reeled back, tripping over his own feet in the process. He nearly fell over backward, and would have, if Medic's grip hadn't closed around his wrist and pulled him upright. Scout jerked away as soon as he was confident in his footing.

“Y-yeah, thanks, Doc,” he blurted, putting a foot and a half of space between the bewildered Medic and himself. “Feels great. I mean, better. It ain't bad, little tight around the fingers but, I, uh, it's fine.”

“Do you want to try to do the other hand yourself?” Medic offered, frowning slightly. “There is plenty of tape for you to-”

“No! I- I mean, nah, I got it, alright? I'll remember.” Scout was edging backward as casually as he could, resisting every urge he felt to simply bolt for the door. He didn't know why, but he had to run. He he had to get out of the basement, away from the Medic, and back to the safety of his own room as fast as possible. His stomach was churning as he held up his arm and made a show of waving it. “I can do this fancy wrapping too, don't worry about it. Th-thanks though, for- for showing me how to-”

Scout's back hit the metal of the door and he was gone.

He didn't look back.

In the safety of his own room, surrounded by his scattered baseball cards and piles of dirty laundry, Scout fell face first into his bed and groaned.

Well, he had to make an ass out of himself sometime today, and he supposed late was better than never. Running out like that was stupid, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He _had_ to get away. From what exactly was a bit confusing, but Scout definitely knew he was starting to feel better already now that he was away from Medic and his hands.

Scout frowned into his pillow, and tried to figure out why the hell he'd just thought that. He also tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach and the speed at which his heart was beating. It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd practically sprinted to his room. Somehow, that knowledge made it worse.

He didn't want to think about this.

He didn't want to think about Medic's hands anymore, or how soft and strong they were. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the extra darkness would help to clear his mind. Instead, behind his eyelids all that greeted him was Medic's bright white smile and his cool, pale eyes.

Scout groaned again, burying his face into the pillow. This was bad. Whatever this was. Not that it _was_ anything, but it was still definitely bad. Thinking about another guy's hands like that... It was weird. And it was wrong. And if anyone from his old neighborhood knew what he was thinking about they'd beat his head in on the pavement like they did to that foreign kid last winter.

Not that Scout was like that kid.

Nah, of course not.

 _Fuck_ that.

So what if Medic had nice hands and pretty eyes, and so what if he smelled good. That didn't make a Scout a fag. The Doc probably wore some crazy expensive cologne that smelled good to everybody. It didn't mean a damn thing.

Scout rolled over restlessly and yanked his t shirt over his head, throwing it across the room to the pile of laundry by the door. He kicked his shoes and socks off and let them drop off the end of his bed before falling back heavily, staring up at the cement ceiling. His hands came to settle on his stomach, and he started briefly when the fingers of his left hand brushed against the wrapping on his right. It did feel nice, having that extra support and padding. And already he could see the advantage of wearing it in a fight. The wrap on his palms would provide extra grip on his bat and his gun, and the covering over his knuckles would lend some much needed protection when it came to direct hand to hand combat. Maybe he'd get Medic to wrap them again before the match. That would be fine, right? After all, he was a doctor. He was better at this kind of stuff. It made sense. It was fine.

Wasn't it?

Scout drifted off with knots in his stomach, tracing the path Medic's fingers had followed along his calloused palm until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i finish this at five in the morning, it's my first tf2 thing. and it's done. yay.


End file.
